


Put It On Me

by BansheeLydia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunken Confessions, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeLydia/pseuds/BansheeLydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac’s heart pounds in his chest as he waits for Stiles to say something.  He’s done one night stands before, not often, but each one had been easy enough because he had no interest in seeing them again, but this is different, this is Stiles, the obnoxious, ridiculously attractive asshole from his comp lit class, and he wants more than just rumpled sheets and an orgasm, he wants....more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put It On Me

“You’re so fucking infuriating, you know that?”

Stiles’ answering smile is sharp, his fingertips biting into Isaac’s hips as he draws him closer, smashes their lips together in a hard, slightly drunken kiss. He tastes like the cheap, shitty vodka coolers he favors, sweet and kind of sticky, and Isaac’s a little hazy, warm-drunk from wine, so he kisses him back, lets his tongue slide against Stiles’ and savors the little moan he gets in response.

He’s hyper aware of Stiles’ hands at his hips, fingers no longer digging in but instead stroking lazy circles against Isaac’s skin under his shirt. Their bodies are pressed tight together; Isaac has Stiles backed against the wall by the stairs and he grinds his hips forward, grins when Stiles drops his head back with a shuddering breath, and he takes the opportunity to latch his lips onto Stiles’ throat. He traces his Adam’s apple, feels it bob as Stiles swallows hard, and drags his lips across a collarbone, tracing a path of open mouthed, damp kisses up Stiles’ throat, taking his time to explore the curve where neck meets shoulder. He feels Stiles’ pulse throb against his tongue before he bites a little mark there. 

“Isaac,” Stiles breathes, gripping tight at the back of Isaac’s shirt, “F- _fuck_.”

He can’t hide his smile, nuzzles just slightly at Stiles’ neck before pulling back a little. He cups Stiles’ throat gently, fingers spread so the pads of his thumb, forefinger and pinkie touch the constellation of moles dotting Stiles’ neck. He’s not willing to admit how long he’s wanted this, how much time he’s spent thinking about the slope of Stiles’ neck, about the moles marking his pale skin; how much he’s wanted to trace those moles with lips and tongue and teeth and leave his own marks behind.

He snaps out of it when someone bumps into him roughly from behind, sends his body crashing into Stiles’, and he turns his head, glaring at Jackson.

“Take it to a room, Lahey,” Jackson snaps. 

“Get lost.”

He waits until Jackson’s gone again, disappearing through the throng of people dancing, to turn back to Stiles. He’s leaning against the wall, body cutting a sharp, beautiful line as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, gaze half lidded and amber eyes bright and burning on the boy in front of him. His lips are puffy and damp from kissing and Isaac _wants_.

“Shall we get out of here?” he leans close to murmur it in Stiles’ ear over the pulse of the music.

Stiles pauses, licks his lower lip, before he finally gives a nod. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet and throaty. “Yeah, please.”

Isaac holds out his hand and bites back a smile when Stiles takes it. He doesn’t know how they got from arguing about some fucking dumb show to this, to pressing up against walls and licking into one another’s mouths, but he’s pleased, so stupidly happy about it. Stiles gives a little squeeze around Isaac’s fingers and it sends a flash of something through him – not want; that’s already burning through him, coiling tight and heavy in his gut – no, it’s _longing_ , this wistful, breathless feeling for something – 

“Yours or mine?” Stiles asks, breaking through Isaac’s thoughts.

“Mine’s closer.”

He flashes a grin at that, the strobe lights pulsing over his face, coloring his teeth and cutting across his cheekbones. Isaac draws him close, leads him out of Jackson’s apartment. He opts for the elevator because Jackson’s building is fancier than his own and doesn’t stink of piss and cheap beer, and he can let Stiles push him up against the wall, mouth hot and urgent against his.

It’s quiet outside, cold November wind clearing Isaac’s head a little, and he wordlessly zips Stiles’ hoodie up for him, rolling his eyes at the smirk he gets in response. It’s a ten minute walk to his own building and he keeps Stiles’ hand in his the whole time. They don’t speak, but there’s a thread of tension between them, anticipation and arousal building in Isaac’s gut the closer they get to his apartment.

As soon as they get inside, he closes the door and cages Stiles against it, cupping his jaw and kissing him urgently, mouth open and insistent as Stiles slips his tongue into his mouth. It’s almost too much – too good – as he grinds his hips in slow, lazy circles against Stiles. He gets a soft almost-whimper in response and presses his leg forward, between Stiles’, so he can grind against his thigh, and he’s hard and aching and he needs to get Stiles naked _now_ , but he can’t bring himself to part their lips, enjoying the deep, slow kisses. Stiles’ fingers curl in his hair, hips jerking forward, and he’s muttering something against Isaac’s mouth, something about _bed, c’mon – c’MON_ – and Isaac wholeheartedly agrees, walking backwards and gripping Stiles’ hips to guide him with him. 

His apartment’s just a studio, mostly minimal, cleaner than probably should be normal, and seconds later, his calves hit the bed and he lets himself fall backwards onto the mattress, pulls Stiles with him. He straddles him easily, leaning his elbows either side of Isaac’s head as he kisses him, just a brief drag of his lips over Isaac’s before he sits back. His ass grinds down against Isaac’s erection, their bodies slotting together so perfectly and he groans and doesn’t resist bucking up slightly, seeking friction. Stiles grins as he peels off his hoodie and plaid shirt. 

Without those layers, Stiles seems more lean than skinny, and Isaac strokes his fingertips over firm biceps, feels taut, stringy muscle under his hands as he drags them down Stiles’ arms. He grips the hem of his shirt and tugs it up and off, tossing it aside. 

Stiles leans forward again and Isaac’s mouth meets his, swapping quick, biting kisses as he slips his hands over a flat stomach, traces Stiles’ ribs one by one, caresses a firm chest and cups the curve of Stiles’ hip, wanting to touch him everywhere, all at once, like he can’t get enough, like he _won’t_ get enough. Stiles huffs out a quiet laugh, breath hot against Isaac’s jaw, and rolls them so Isaac’s on top, legs falling open for him so easily so he can slide between his thighs, hips slotting together as he runs his lips over the Stiles’ jaw. 

He feels overheated, body taut, arousal coiled tight as he lets everything build, heavy and urgent and perfect. He sucks a mark at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw, smiling at his hitched moan, kisses his way down his neck, tracing a path from mole to mole as he leaves little nipping kisses down Stiles’ collarbone and shoulder, then down, down, finally getting his mouth on the moles on Stiles’ body. He wants to discover all of them, touch and kiss every single one of them, but later; for now he traces the moles dotting Stiles’ chest and hips with his tongue until Stiles is impatient and squirming. 

“You’re too – oh _fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, back arching just slightly as Isaac’s lips find his nipple, teasing it between his teeth, “Too fucking _dressed_ , Isaac, _fuck_ -.”

He keeps teasing, wanting to brand the unashamed moans that fall from Stiles’ mouth into his memory forever, before he sits back, yanking off his jacket and shirt and throwing them aside. Stiles’ hands are instantly on him, touching him fucking _everywhere_ , and Isaac groans, fumbling with Stiles’ belt, but he frowns when Stiles suddenly laughs breathlessly.

“Sorry,” he manages, laughing again as he strokes a thumb over Isaac’s cheekbone, “Sorry, it’s just – shoes.”

Isaac glances down and can’t help his own grin. He presses a softer kiss against Stiles’ lips before pulling back and they both quickly get rid of their shoes and socks. Stiles’ jeans go first and Isaac snorts because fucking _Captain America_ boxers, of course, that’s so _Stiles_ and he kind of loves it. He kisses Stiles again as he tries to get Isaac’s jeans off, trying to cop a feel and drag them down Isaac’s thighs at the same time, hissing when Isaac’s teeth scrape over his jaw. Finally, they’re off and Isaac lowers his body again, giving a slow, full bodied roll up Stiles as he kisses him again, and Stiles gives a quiet, strangled sound in response, knees hitching up around Isaac’s hips.

Isaac wants so much, wants to be inside Stiles, wants Stiles inside him, he wants to taste him and see how many times he can make him come, but he already knows this is going to be over fast. He grinds down against Stiles and Stiles rocks his hips up, getting the friction they both need. 

Stiles drags his nails slowly down Isaac’s back before slipping his hands under his boxers, gripping his ass tightly to tug him closer, urging him on, and Isaac groans, burying his face against Stiles’ neck, kissing there. Stiles’ moans are in his ear, his chest rising and falling as he pants, a little whimper escaping him when Isaac drags his hips just right, and Isaac can’t help it as he tumbles over the edge, coming fast and hard with a choked sound, spilling into his boxers. He strokes Stiles’ cock through the thin fabric of his boxers until he finishes with a loud moan, thighs twitching and dampness spreading under Isaac’s fingers.

They lay there for a few moments, the only sound their labored breathing, until Isaac collapses onto the bed next to Stiles, breathless and sated, limbs feeling all gooey. He’s always out of it for a good ten minutes after an orgasm, blissed out and happy, but he rolls his head to offer Stiles a smile.

He’s answered by a snore.

Snorting, Isaac glances down at the wet patch in his boxers, feeling a little sticky. He knows if he leaves it, it’s going to be crusty and gross in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to care; just tugs the blanket up over both of them and gets comfy, letting Stiles’ snores lull him to sleep.

*

He wakes slowly. He’s warm and comfortable, and he can hear birds outside. It’s peaceful and he stretches out, opening his eyes to pale light spilling through his window, illuminating Stiles’ lean body on his bed. The sheets are rumpled around his waist and he’s stretched out to take up most of the space. 

Isaac can’t help but stare. Stiles’ full lips are parted slightly, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and he looks so peaceful and soft in slumber, his hair a wild, just-fucked mess. It’s a sight that has Isaac’s heart clenching, because it’s a sight that he could really get used to, a sight he wants in his bed every morning, and that scares him a little even as it excites him.

Taking a deep breath, he climbs out of bed, grimacing when his boxers peel away from his flesh uncomfortably. He cleans up, gets dressed, and leaves quietly. By the time he returns with two cups of coffee and a bag of donuts, Stiles is only just stirring, groaning and stretching, bones popping slightly. 

“Oh god,” he groans, “My mouth tastes like ass.”

Isaac laughs, sitting down at his desk and stretching his longs legs out. Stiles sits up at the sound, gaze swinging around the apartment before settling on Isaac. For just a moment, they stare at each other. 

Isaac’s heart pounds in his chest as he waits for Stiles to say something. He’s done one night stands before, not often, but each one had been easy enough because he had no interest in seeing them again, but this is different, this is | _Stiles_ , the obnoxious, ridiculously attractive asshole from his comp lit class, and he wants more than just rumpled sheets and an orgasm, he wants.... _more_. But he doesn’t know if Stiles wants the same and that scares him, has a familiar, dark shadow of anxiety swelling in his chest.

Finally, Stiles licks his lower lip and asks, voice hoarse from sleep, “Did we...you know? Fuck?”

Isaac’s not exactly a blushing virgin or anything, but at that word coming from Stiles’ mouth in _that_ voice, deep and throaty, he has to drop his gaze to the rug beneath his feet, scratching the back of his neck before he answers.

“No. Just some heavy petting, I guess. We came in our boxers like teenagers.” His tone is dry and he risks a quick glance up, just in time to catch the fleeting look of relief on Stiles’ face.

It cuts right to Isaac’s core. He’d tried not to let himself hope, tried to focus on the fact that it was just quick, drunken sex, but he still feels his heart crack and hates himself for it. Silence stretches between them before Stiles shifts slightly, opening his mouth to say something, and Isaac can’t bear to hear anything else, can’t bear to have that ache in his heart poked at, so he cuts across him.

“I’m going to have a shower.” Embarrassment makes his tone cold. “I got you coffee and donuts to take with you.”

It’s a clear dismissal and Stiles blinks back at him, lips parting as if he’s going to say something, but whatever it is, he bites it back and gets to his feet. There’s an itch under Isaac’s skin and he just needs to get away, to put space between him and the situation, so he grabs his towel from where it’s slung on the back of the chair and heads into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

He stands there for a few minutes, eyes closed and forehead pressed against the cool wood as he lets himself calm down, pushes the hurt and humiliation back until he can breathe properly again.

By the time he leaves the bathroom, Stiles is gone.

*

Erica’s fingers card gently through Isaac’s hair.

“You’re an idiot,” she says fondly.

He knows. God, he _knows_ he’s an idiot, that he fucked up. Badly. It’s been three weeks since he hooked up with Stiles and he never thought he’d miss the asshole’s snarky comments in class and his uncanny ability to rile Isaac up in debates. But he _does_ , he really, really does; he misses the bright burn in Stiles’ amber eyes when he’s passionate about something and the flush in his cheeks as he argues. He misses the way Stiles’ hands cut shapes in the air as he rants and how his chest heaves after. He misses Stiles’ dry remarks and sarcasm and the way they’ll always catch each other’s gaze and share an eye roll when another student says something ridiculous. 

He misses Stiles’ smile most of all.

Because since that night, Stiles hasn’t sat near him in class, and he’s been quiet. He hasn’t raised his hand or made witty comments. Isaac’s tried deliberately baiting him, saying things he _knows_ Stiles would normally argue with, but Stiles doesn’t rise to it. He’s silent and he doesn’t ever glance at Isaac, not once. He knows because he can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away, just in case he misses just a flash of those wickedly gorgeous eyes or Stiles’ smile.

Outside of class, Stiles has been avoiding him. Isaac knows Stiles probably regrets what happened and hates himself for how much he doesn’t. He hates the fact that even though Stiles’ dismissal cuts through him, rips his heart apart, he doesn’t love the asshole any less.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he mumbles, lifting his head slightly from Erica’s lap to look at her.

“There’s always a sure-fire way of fixing it,” Erica says brightly. She ruffles Isaac’s hair fondly before shoving him off and gets to her feet, heading into the kitchen.

When she returns, she’s got a bottle of tequila in one hand and two shot glasses in the other, and Isaac rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think tequila’s gonna fix anything.”

“No,” she allows. “But it’s a great way to forget for a while.”

Isaac looks between the liquid sloshing in the bottle and Erica’s raised eyebrow and gives in, shrugging as he joins her on the floor by the coffee table. She crosses her long legs, skirt hiking up enough to show her underwear as she pours tequila neatly into the two shot glasses. She nudges one into his waiting palm and picks up her own, holding it out ceremoniously.

“Cheers.”

He smirks in response, but replies, “Cheers.” 

And downs his shot in one quick gulp.

*

“This is a terrible idea.” Isaac’s voice slurs and he frowns, moving his tongue slightly to try and fix his words. “ _Terrible_.”

Erica bops her fingertip on his nose. “It’s a _great_ idea.”

“Awful,” he argues.

She pauses, scrunches up her nose as she considers. “Probably,” she agrees. “You should do it.”

Isaac fumbles at his phone, chin propped on the edge of the coffee table as he finds Stiles’ number in his contacts. He stabs a finger at the call button and Erica leans over him to put his phone on speaker, then pillows her head on his chest as it dials.

“’Lo?” Stiles’ voice is thick with sleep when he answers.

“Stiles!” Isaac throws his arms up in the air and Erica laughs, smooshing her face against his shoulder.

There’s a pause, then a sigh. “What do you want, Isaac?”

“I just...you...you’re an _asshole_!”

“Goodnight, Isaac.”

Isaac makes a panicked sound. “Wait!” he protests. “I just...you’re an asshole but I...I _love_ you, you butt.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. Isaac squints at it, waiting, but he’s distracted when Erica tries to get to her feet and ends up falling on her ass. A laugh bursts out of him and she throws a pillow at his face in retaliation, and then they’re wrestling on the floor, trying to win a tickle battle.

By the time Isaac gets back to his phone, Stiles is gone.

*

“I’m an idiot,” Isaac says and Boyd nods without an ounce of sympathy. “I fucked up. I fucked up even worse than how I originally fucked up and it didn’t even know that was fucking _possible_ , but I managed it.”

“That’s generally what happens when you listen to drunk Erica,” Boyd replies calmly.

Erica lifts her head just enough to glare at her boyfriend before going back to nuzzling his shoulder. Sighing, Isaac flops back on his bed, rubbing his hands over his face. It’s been two days since he phoned Stiles and he hasn’t heard a single thing from the other man and there’s this horrible feeling in Isaac’s gut that he’s well and truly ruined everything.

“I can’t fix this,” he says.

Boyd looks up from his book. “You can try,” he says gently. “It’s always worth a shot.”

Isaac bites the inside of his cheek, doubtful. Boyd sits up more, opening his mouth to say something else, but they’re interrupted by a knock on Isaac’s door. Groaning, he slips off the bed and shuffles to the door, swinging it open – and blinks.

“Stiles?”

He’s wearing the red hoodie that’s so ugly yet annoyingly cute on Stiles and it’s drenched from the rain. The flowers in his hands are wilted and he scratches the back of his neck nervously. 

“Hi.”

Erica slinks past Stiles, dragging Boyd behind her. “Hi, Stiles,” she says brightly. “Bye, Isaac!”

Both Isaac and Stiles watch them disappear down the hall before Isaac steps back, allowing Stiles into his apartment. They’re quiet as Stiles strips out of his soaked hoodie and shoves off his shoes, making himself at home at Isaac’s desk.

Isaac licks his lips. “Look, Stiles, I’m sorry.”

Amber eyes settle on him. “For...?”

“The phone call the other night. I was drunk and I know I probably made you uncomfortable, and I don’t know how to fix this, but I -.”

“I love you.” 

Isaac’s apology dies in his throat, shock rocking through him. “I – what? You...?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I love you. You’re infuriating as fuck and so cocky and you wear those fucking _hideous_ scarves, and we had what I bet was a freaking fantastic night together only for you to practically kick me out the next morning, you jackass.”

Isaac feels like an idiot. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. And then you drunk dial me to tell me you love me. It’s like whiplash, dude.” Stiles huffs. “I was gonna let you make the first move, but then I realized you probably never would, so...here.” He holds out the ruined flowers. “Consider this me making the first move.”

For a few quiet moments, Isaac can just stare at him, completely stumped. When Stiles raises his eyebrows, impatient, he swallows and says, “You know, as love confessions go, that was pretty fucking terrible.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles returns, but his tone is fond and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Please do.”

He huffs out a laugh, tossing the flowers onto the bed – and Isaac’s gonna make a comment about that later because he _just_ put clean sheets on – and getting to his feet. Long fingers cup Isaac’s jaw as Stiles grins at him.

“I love you,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Isaac replies. “I love you too.”

“I know.”

He opens his mouth to make a remark about Stiles’ cocky smirk, but then the other man’s mouth is on his own, and Isaac figures he can save it for later.

**Author's Note:**

> allirica.tumblr.com.


End file.
